January of that year, I went to my first local show in the longest time. I went with a girl name Kana. I was severely envious of her. She had everything I could ever want. She made me feel comfortable. Planning this for two days, we decided that me and her will go see a show called Destenova at a church. I found it quite ironic how they were playing metal bands in a church with songs about schizophrenia. There was a mosh pit where I imagined where the pews would sit. I pictured the ladies and men dressed in their finest pressed clothes and listen intently to hold on to faith as the preacher would drone on about sins and their savior. I pictured the children falling asleep and struggling with their clothes that they were forced to wear by their elders. I pictured misfits not belonging there, but couldn't escape the building. And here they are, singing about mental dementia and going against "the Savior". So ironic, I had to stifle a laughter. That's when I came to realize, religion scared me, and I didn't know what I believed in. I met a lot of her friends, but I didn't like them. I felt so uncomfortable around them.

But, then again, they looked at me like I was a disease. I don't understand why it's so hard for me to get along with people. It's not like I was being rude or mean. And she seemed to not care of them too much. She always stuck with me. I felt wanted or at least like someone.

Kana and I would run to the bathroom, or I'd go outside for a smoke, and we'd chat and laugh. Share issues or pick on people. She reminded me of myself, but more witty. We both shared the same guilt, eating. Every time we'd eat, we'd feel guilty. But she was so small, the perfect weight and perfectly proportioned.

But that was the night I met up with Travis for the first time since I went to my old school. It was refreshing to see him. Though, I almost didn't recognize him. He had blue hair and he lost a lot of weight. He seemed he was doing well.

I left the church, and went to Kana's until my dad showed up. We took pictures together... and I felt so ugly. I never felt that ugly. When I got home, I took my shower and looked down. "You're hideous, Gabriella. I can't believe you really let yourself go," I muttered through out scrubbing my skin raw and bright red. And though the water was ice cold, I was burning red. I stared down at the round, thick thighs that were covered in scars and stretch marks. I tried everything in the book to get rid of them. But I was cursed. The way my breasts placed on my chest gave me a burst of confidence, but at that moment, I hated them. The way they were shaped, the size of them. I didn't think they were round enough. And how my stomach was a nice large shape. My wrists were thicker. I couldn't understand why I couldn't loose the weight. I hadn't eaten anything in days. How I missed being skinnier.

Later that month, after talking to Savana religiously, I realized that depression was sinking deeper. I don't even remember how it began. It's like, when you have a sweater and there's a loose thread. You keep pulling at it, and pulling at it, little by little. And then you realize, that the thread has built up into a mound, and your sweater is ruined. That's what depression is like to me. I can't think of any way else to put it...

I would take pictures of myself, to boost my confidence, and put them on my Myspace. But I never had enough friends. I never had many picture comments or messages. I thought it was pointless to even have one. But then again, I only had one real friend.

But, later in that January, Samantha called me up. She wanted me to go to a place with her. I never been there. But I lied, and said I have. I don't know why I lied. I guess it was on impulse. But, by this time, I was the master at lying. It was all I did to cover my secrets.

That moment, when she called, I was sitting on my bed, holding the .380 my dad had recently gotten for the house... I've never stared down something so cold, so welcoming. I had my notes written out. I finally written out my loathe to my mother, and my adoration for my father, and the trouble my sister had given me. But Samantha stopped me.

I showed up, and I was scared. Not because of the mohawks, the chains, the patches people sported. But because I had severe social anxiety. I was really scared of interacting with people. And being surrounded by them. I always called my self "The Hermit-Bitch." I guess it was well suitable.

I paid and got in. All I saw was a mass of outcasts. I wanted nothing more to dash. I introduced myself to everyone as Misery. I met several people, and didn't know how to respond. I never had anything to say. I was envious of their happiness and envious of how carefree they were. But, it was their happiness that made me smile. I had met the people of this bizarre crowd. And the music they played released my tension. I tried my best to remember their names.

Though, Travis was there, and he was happy to see me. Samantha and I were attached at the hip, where she went, I did. Where I went, she did. I found comfort in that, though I did envy her for her own special way of interaction. It kinda made me wonder how she just... works.

That night, the group of people that Samantha knew would tickle me, as I was laying on the pile of bodies. I would freak out. I wasn't used to being touched. I never meant to flinch or jump. The people were sweet and welcoming and wanted me to come back more often. I was called pretty and beautiful by random strangers, I watched people laugh and smoke, I saw freedom. I felt like this was somewhere I actually belonged.

When I went home, I was glad Samantha called. I had no idea what I would miss out on. Maybe, just maybe, there was a reason she was in my life...

- Gabriella.